The Artist
by to2llyuntraceable
Summary: For years, the Fordyces have worked for the SDC, and, despite the resentment, Crockett will too. Such is life in Rowan, a town deep in the mountains where career paths differ by the spot on an assembly line. He fights this confinement by painting majestic landscapes beyond the protective walls of the town. But when he rescues a girl from Vale in the woods, his old life isn't enough


**I just need to publish this to get 5,000 words so I can beta. I swear its a RWBY fic, even though the only character mentioned is an OC, but the rest of the RWBY characters quickly come on to the scene. I have a fascination with RWBY's world, more so than its characters even, and I think that living in harsh enough conditions to survive without help from Huntresses and the technology of the main cities in Vale are a part of the story that has such potential to be explored. How would the confines of Vale expand outwards when Grimm like the Nuckelvee can permanently wipe out entire villages? My answer: harsh conditions only humans and Faunus could adapt to, in a corporate funded expenditure designed to exploit cheap labor by operating outside governmental jurisdiction. Now what would happen if an Aura user, essentially a magnet for Grimm, disrupted years and years of purposefully cultivated ignorance from Grimm and Vale alike?**

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Chapter 1

Crockett Fordyce strolled through Rowan, shoulders hunched from the weight of his backpack but otherwise not uncomfortable. He was the only one awake in the sleepy town. The only sounds in the night were the crunch of his boots as they trudged through the thick snow, and the rustling of the wind through the trees. He glanced at darkened homes through the dim light of streetlamps. They were all bungalows, with white siding and polar blue roofs covered in snow drifts, and a wide wooden front porch. Most were bereft of decoration, indistinguishable from one other; these were occupied by railway workers who had contracts for a year or two. Once they arrived, they were already itching to leave, and found no point in beautifying the homes beyond what had already been built by the Company. Renovation was forbidden anyway, but the SDC Overseer allowed for some home improvement once you had spent a few years in the community. Crockett's family had carved chairs for their porch themselves and two years ago had planted a garden.

In spite of the cold, both corporate and weather-related, there was beauty beyond the walls of the village. Silhouettes of rugged mountains loomed in the distance. Snow covered the trees like glaze on a cinnamon bun. Purplish clouds of the Milky Way stood out against a clear night sky brimming with stars. It was in these rare moments that Crockett almost understood why people would choose to leave the safety of Vale to live isolated in the Sanusian Mountains. He reveled in that fleeting sense of tranquility. It would be quickly forgotten, however, when the sun came up and the work day began. Natural beauty could not warm the hands of the men and women who suffered here.

Crockett left the main road and walked towards the border of the village, until he stopped at a large tree adjacent to the large stone walls surrounding the town. In the spirit of being observant, he took a long look at his old foe. It was an ancient fir, at least a few hundred years old, and the way it towered over him it might as well been a redwood. A long way up, a thick branch extended over the wall. From experience, Crockett knew it could support his wiry frame, even towards its leafy end. The bark of the trunk was chipped, sometimes missing, and Crockett felt a twinge of guilt knowing his climbing had contributed, and would continue to contribute, to the wear and tear. But with the town gates closed till sunrise, it was the only exit out of the settlement.

_That damned tree's been taking off the skin on my leg, so I guess we're even, _Crockett thought.

He took off his backpack and did a quick inventory, making sure that his ascent would not be in vain. First, he took out the canvas and the acrylic paint set, his _raison d'être _and some of the few things he had brought from a visit to Vale some years ago. Crockett had a precious short supply of the canvases, and had no way to replenish his supplies. For the most part, he used cheap sketchpads for his art, but for a project as difficult as this nothing else would be sufficient. Next, he pulled out the compass and the flashlight, his tools of navigation towards Lost Valley. He carried no weapon. Finally, there was the rope. He was going to use that right here.

After returning his tools into the backpack, Crockett wrapped his arms, then his legs halfway around the base of the tree, making sure his legs in particular had a vice-like grip. The weight of the backpack was already threatening to pull him off. Slowly, he began to inchworm his way towards his exit branch, extending his arms upward and then pulling his legs into him.

_Slow and steady. You got a lot of strength left in you. It's a good thing you're a farm boy, huh._

The frozen bark scraped at his skin like sandpaper, even through his jeans. His bag seemed to get heavier and heavier as he ascended.

_C'mon now, 15 feet left. Can't fall now._

His muscles burned as he climbed, and he could feel his sweat moisten the sleeves of his coat. Still he pushed on, the branch nearer and nearer, and felt a gust of wind as he passed the top of the wall.

_Almost … there…_

He grasped the branch with both hands like a pullup bar, letting his feet dangle in the air. He grunted loudly as he pulled himself up, unable to stifle the noise, but then he was on top of the branch, and it was over. He glanced downward, his heart pounding in his chest, an irremovable smile on his face. Crockett had ascended more than 30 feet off the ground.

In an anonymous show of rebellion, he relaxed in the tree for a bit, plainly visible to any nightwalker in Rowan. If the Overseer somehow discovered his excursions, his family's weekly ration would mysteriously disappear. Sure, it was illegal, but the town was beyond Vale, beyond the law. In Rowan, the Company was judge, jury, and executioner. And so, he sat, enjoying the rush of righteous anger, a subtle revolutionary.

He shimmied to the end of the branch and tied the end of the rope to the branch and watched the other end disappear downward into the darkness. His stomach clenched a bit as he left the streetlamps of Rowan behind, crossing beyond the wall and into the wilderness. Crockett was sure there wouldn't be any Grimm. There was no reason for them to have traveled up the mountainside, especially the day after a snowstorm. Even so, his heartbeat quickened: he'd be helpless in that kind of dark. For a moment, he looked back towards the safety of Rowan one last time. He swore he would recreate this moment on a canvas, straddling a monochrome town and hidden colors absorbed in black night. That was his passion, discovering hidden colors. Few, if any, had even seen the winter sunrise over Lost Valley. He would capture it forever.

In the end, Crockett made his choice as he had done so before; he scrambled down the rope, retrieved the flashlight and compass from his bag, and began the three-mile trek to Lost Valley. As he walked, a soft wail tickled his ears, too far away to be distinguishable. It was odd, vocally diverse, not like the tell-tale howl of the Beowolf or the squaw of a Nevermore. In fact, it didn't sound like anything Crockett had heard in the forest before. Firm in his resolve, Crockett continued his trek. Perhaps, it may have been more ignorant overconfidence in the safety of the woods than resolve, that pushed Crockett on. Perhaps, he was a little too sure of his logic, a little too caught up in the romance to care. Perhaps he should have been concerned by the soft wail in the distance. In the end, Crockett chalked it up to the tricks of the wind.


End file.
